“I don’t understand. No one seemed so hurried about Ullmann.” Martin was not sure if this came out as a question or an accusation, and realized it was both.
“Ullmann was different. They had to wait for his sons to come before they buried him. Moreover, the rabbi and his widow felt he should have a great procession. In my opinion, unwise, given…” Singer stopped and took in a breath. “Given the hatred,” he continued. “Look what it has led to.”
“I don’t understand—”
Singer interrupted him. “Don’t you see what can happen when we have the audacity to show ourselves, to be important, to praise one of our own?”
“Oh, David.” It was so disheartening to see his friend like this. Martin simply could not believe that a funeral procession would drive someone to murder. A second murder.
“You say we are out of place here, in this room for the dead. What about the man who came into my uncle’s home? Does anyone care about that?” Singer’s grief and resentment were making it impossible to reason with him. He had gathered a full head of steam against Martin. And what if—sweat broke out on Martin’s forehead imagining it—what if Singer began accusing
him
of being responsible for Erlanger’s death? Because Martin had not pursued the anti-Israelites of the city. Because he had not taken the threat seriously enough.
“Of course I am sorry about your relative’s death. But you are asking me to grant you privileges I would not give others.” Martin wanted to make a truce, he wanted to understand, to accommodate his friend in his grief, but Singer had to offer him some explanation, some reason.
Singer stepped back until he hit the wall behind him. “I suppose,” he began, “if the rules were made for people like me instead of people like you, then I would not be breaking them. We try to bury our dead within twenty-four hours; we wash them, pray over them, lay them in a plain pine box. All this, so their mortal remains will return to the earth as pure and as blessed as they came into it. This strikes me as supremely rational, if that is what you care about. And it is the way of my community.”
Arguing about privilege and rights was getting nowhere. Martin realized that it would have been better, more human, to start with his sympathy. “David,” he said softly, “you called Erlanger your uncle. I thought he was your wife’s relative.”
“He was.” Singer bent his head for a moment, as if he were considering what to say. Then he looked straight in Martin’s eyes. “You might as well know this, although there are some who might consider my wife’s family to be
insufficiently patriotic
.” Singer underlined these last two words with sarcasm. “Noémie and I knew each other as children, in Metz. After the war, her parents decided not to leave German Lorraine because of their business. They sent her to boarding school in France, but would have never allowed her to stay if her uncle hadn’t moved here. They considered him to be her guardian. For both of us, he became the beloved bachelor uncle, invited to all the holidays, bringing the wine, the stories, the sweets for the children.” Singer turned his face away from Martin to hide his emotion.
As Martin listened he thought of Giuseppe and how much Clarie’s father meant to him. Martin reached out for Singer’s arm, but was unsure whether or not he should touch the shawl. He withdrew it. “I’m sorry,” Martin said again.
“Then will you let me do it?” Singer asked. “Let me have my uncle’s body washed and prayed over properly. Allow us to bury him. You are the judge. This is your case.”
Martin thought for a moment. What would it cost him? He’d have Fauvet’s and Jacquette’s report. Didier would surely concede that the funeral should occur as quickly, as quietly and as discreetly as possible. Martin stole a glance at Singer, who kept staring at him, waiting. Despite his office and his duties, Martin always felt that holding the dead in the morgue as if they were merely scientific specimens was a kind of violation. Death should be a private, family matter, attended only by close and loving friends. Martin nodded his agreement. It was the least he could do.
Martin left the morgue weighed down by sadness and apprehension. A second murder. The realization that the jailed Pierre Thomas was likely innocent of Ullmann’s murder gave him little consolation. If Singer and Didier were right, the task ahead would be daunting. He quickened his pace. He had much to do.
Saturday, December 1
W
HAT ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE
doing here?
Clarie huddled into the plaid blanket. Even though she sat close to the fire, she could not get rid of the chill. The headmistress of Jeanne d’Arc, perched on a dining-room chair set right in front of Clarie, recited a supposedly amusing anecdote about one of their students. Elise Fremier settled into the nearby armchair, accepting a cup of tea from Papa.
Oh yes, Saturday. School ends at noon. The teachers have come to see me. But why? No one talks to me about what I need to know. Was my baby ever happy here? Is he cold now? Is he all by himself in that dark place? Or is he already up in heaven with the angels? What did I do wrong? Why doesn’t anyone tell me?
She surveyed the room. Madeleine and Bernard’s mother stood in the corner, sipping tea with the school’s youngest teacher. For once they weren’t scrutinizing Clarie’s every reaction.
Marie Dusseau smiled expectantly, waiting for a response. But Clarie hadn’t heard what she said. The headmistress looked down at her teacup, embarrassed. Elise broke in: “How long is your father staying? I’m so happy to have met him.”
“Until Monday, I think,” Clarie mumbled.
Then the apartment will be even emptier.
“And Monsieur Martin’s mother?” Mme Dusseau asked.
Clarie had to think. They’ve told her all this, as if it really mattered. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“We’ll have to say good-bye now. What a wonderful family you have.” Approval from the headmistress. Clarie should be pleased.
“When school is out,” Elise added eagerly, “we’ll be able to visit much more.”
No, I don’t want to see you. Or anyone. I want my baby.
“Oh, dear,” Elise said as she got up to comfort Clarie.
Clarie resisted her embrace. “I’m all right. Sorry.” She couldn’t help it if a few tears fell once in a while. It was nothing. Didn’t they understand? Nothing compared to the emptiness. Clarie’s hand groped under the blanket, landing on her stomach.
If only he were still there, safe and warm.
Good, kind Elise retreated, biting her lower lip and frowning with concern.
Clarie managed a reassuring smile, thinking that if everyone thought she was “recovering,” they would leave her alone. But recovering for what, for whom? Bernard just went about his business; Papa had to go back to Arles; and Madeleine and Adele Martin spent all their spare time praying. Maybe Madeleine and Mme Martin are right, Clarie thought, as she traced a line of the dark blue and green pattern with her finger. At least they were doing something.
Sunday, December 2
H
E KNEW THAT
S
UNDAY WOULD
be the worst day.
Yesterday there had been a glimmer of hope. The headmistress and the two other teachers from Clarie’s school had visited after their morning classes and brought with them not only murmured condolences, but also flowers, bread, cheese, cakes, and news of their students. They had surrounded Clarie in the armchair that in the last few days, replete with a tattered tartan wool blanket, pillow, and padded stool, had become hers alone. Martin watched the teachers from across the room and saw Clarie smile.
But today was different. Barely had Clarie risen from her bed and made her way to her chair by the fire when, straight from High Mass and the fortification of the Body and Blood of Christ, Madeleine and his mother swooped in and down on her. Giuseppe greeted them at the door and gallantly fetched two wooden dining-room chairs so that the women could be as close to Clarie as possible. There they sat, smothering her with whispered pieties about God’s mercy and the power of prayer.
Martin rattled the newspaper as he shot an irritated glance at the three of them. He wanted to leap across the room and grab his mother’s hand as she smoothed back a strand of heavy black hair from Clarie’s worn, pale face. For years his mother had disdained his choice in marriage because Clarie was a blacksmith’s daughter and, worse, had become a public school teacher. But now, now, she and Madeleine were eagerly welcoming Clarie into the sorority of suffering womanhood and the narrow-minded righteous world of crucifixes, daily rosaries and dead babies magically transformed into little angels. Of babies dead and babies not born. Martin bit down on his lip and pressed his eyes closed. He had to try harder to be kind to his mother. All she had wanted in life was a family, and all she had gotten was him.
All Martin wanted at this moment was his Clarie back.
He felt a certain envy for his father-in-law who sat beside him in an armchair, glasses halfway down his nose, either reading or dozing over the Sunday paper, somehow at peace with the scene. Martin straightened and folded his section of the
Courrier de l’Est
before setting it on the end table between them. If only he had Giuseppe’s gift for tolerating those with whom he so profoundly disagreed.
Martin got up and walked to the window, turning his back on the women. He stared at the scene below him. It was hard to believe that people were cheerfully going about their business in the cold, shopping, talking, scurrying home to make their Sunday dinner. It would have seemed so normal only a week ago.
Martin grabbed at the window frame to steady himself.
Only a week ago.
How could these simple words throw him off balance?
A week ago,
he saw Singer and the tinker from the same window.
A week ago
, Henri-Joseph was alive.
A week ago,
Martin, fool that he was, believed his son was well. Before Martin could straighten up again, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.
“I know,” Giuseppe whispered. “But we must be strong for Clarie’s sake.”
Martin nodded, as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and undid it, fold by fold.
“Perhaps you and I should go for a walk,” Giuseppe suggested.
Martin wiped his face and blew his nose. He nodded to signal that he was all right. “I’m taking Mother to the station soon; you are welcome to join us.” Martin stood up beside his father-in-law’s warm protection. The blacksmith’s broad body kept his weakness out of Clarie’s view.
“Oh, no, I would not intrude. That’s a time for the two of you.”
“And you’re going tomorrow?” Martin confirmed, trying to suppress the dread in his voice. He didn’t want to contemplate leaving Clarie alone with Rose and Madeleine.
“I must. I’ve left the forge for too long. But I promised Clarie I’d be back right after Christmas, and I’m going to bring her Aunt Henriette with me. That should help.”
“Yes.” Martin forced a smile. “It will be good for all of us to think about the old times, the restaurant in Aix.” The place where he had met his beautiful, smart, headstrong Clarie. A girl bold enough to hide his secrets, and kind enough to put up with him. Martin glanced again at his wife. Perhaps by Christmas the dark rings would no longer circle her eyes. Perhaps she’d be out of her nightgown, out of the braids, into his life again.
“Take that worried look off your face. Clarie will be fine. She’s strong. My little girl has always had friends who love her, who will take care of her.” Giuseppe paused as a mischievous little smile spread under his white mustache. “Besides Madeleine,” he whispered in Martin’s ear.
“I’m that obvious?” Martin arched his eyebrows in mock dismay and slapped his father-in-law on the back. Martin was really going to miss him, even though he knew that he was being selfish. He could not expect the older man to sleep on an easy chair in their living room indefinitely.
“So, back to our papers, until your mother’s ready to leave?”
Martin nodded, but stopped in his tracks when he saw his mother take a medal from around her neck and give it to Clarie. Adele Martin tenderly closed her daughter-in-law’s hand around the religious medal, before bowing her head in prayer.
“Come,” Giuseppe urged him again. “If this helps Clarie find consolation….”
Consolation
. As he watched the women, Martin realized he had little right to be upset. What had he to offer Clarie, except to assure her that it would get better, that they would try as soon as possible to have another child, that he loved her? Time. The future. Each other. That was his consolation. Perhaps she needed something stronger, something more tangible. At least for a while. Like his mother’s most precious sacred keepsake, a medal dedicated to all true Children of the Virgin Mary.
He slumped back to his chair, about to reopen the paper when the bell rang. Giuseppe put up one finger and gave Martin a triumphant look. “I bet I know who that is. You’ll see how many people love our Clarie.”
Curious, Martin headed for the door, and opened it to find his landlady, Esther Stein, holding a soup pot and her daughter, Rebecca, behind her, peering shyly above her shoulder.
“Oh, Monsieur le juge, I saw Monsieur Giuseppe when he went for the papers. I told him that I knew it was your sabbath, and that Rose would not come and could we—”
“Here, let me take that from you,” Martin said as he reached to relieve his landlady of her burdens.
“Soup, soup is good,” Mme Stein continued. “Always. For everything. Especially in the winter.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you. Come in, please.” The pot was heavy and still warm. Although they already had a shameful amount of food in a home where no one was prepared to eat it, he hastened to add, “This is going to be wonderful, for all of us.”
“And Rebecca was wondering if she could visit with Mme Martin just for a little while. We don’t want to—”
“Please.” Martin stood aside. “Come in.”
Although Mme Stein stepped in without hesitation, Rebecca held back, her hands clasped together below her waist and her shoulders rising up to her neck as a shy smile flickered across her face.
“I’m certain Mme Martin would love to hear news of the school,” Martin assured her.
Bowing her head, she followed her mother into the living room, where the appearance of the landlady and her daughter brought the hushed conversations by the fire to a standstill. Staring at Martin, as if he had committed a breach of etiquette, Madeleine stiffly rose from her chair and stood a little apart from Clarie.
“Madame Froment, don’t disturb yourself. We just came up to bring some soup,” Mme Stein told her.
“How thoughtful,” Madeleine remarked, and then turned to Martin’s mother. “These are the Steins,” she explained.
“Oh.” Martin’s mother eased her way out of her seat. “You two can sit here. I must go back to my hotel and pack.”
Martin was relieved. This was polite and considerate.
“Really,” she gestured toward her chair.
Mme Stein backed away. “Visiting in my apron. No. I must go back to the store.”
Clarie observed the scene languidly until she caught sight of Rebecca, who, seeing that she had been spotted, immediately went to her teacher and knelt down at her feet. This time it was Clarie smoothing back Rebecca’s curly black hair. Martin’s heart leaped with hope. This is what Clarie needed. A reminder of her other life. But when he saw his wife put her hand back in her lap, like an awkward young girl who for a moment had forgotten who and where she was, he felt deflated. It was too soon for her to forget for more than an instant that she was in mourning for her baby.
While he was watching, Esther Stein took the pot from him and headed into the dining room. He followed her.
“There,” she said as she set the soup on the table. “You’ll have dinner. No worries. And anything else we can do. I know Monsieur Giuseppe is leaving too. We are almost always at the store, except during our sabbath. And then we are home.” Her eyes were warm and moist, sympathetic.
“Thank you. And Monsieur Stein, how is he?” Martin expected that this conventional politeness would bring a conventional response. But it did not.
Mme Stein’s face fell. She reached to the table for support and began to slowly shake her head. “At the funeral. A terrible thing has happened this week. You must know about it. Another man of our community has been murdered.”
“Erlanger,” Martin whispered, caught off guard by this unexpected reminder of his other life. He helped her into a chair and sat down himself, staring into space.
The funeral is today, going on right now. Singer’s uncle.
“Yes, Maître Erlanger, the notary. Such a kind man. No matter how poor a man or woman might be, he drew up their marriage contracts and wills, and gave advice to all of us. Always willing to help anyone. Who can understand it?” He could feel her eyes searching his face, waiting for some response.
The newspapers had reported the crime, but thankfully they had not yet mentioned Martin’s name. Nor had they made the connection between the murders of Ullmann and Erlanger. But they would, inevitably. And Mme Stein already had.
“Two murders,” she murmured. “Two of our best men. Why?”
Martin could not bear to look at her. He had no answers, although he knew he should. Two murders, his responsibility.
“Oh, Monsieur le juge,” Mme Stein said, recovering before he did, “I should not trouble you with all this. Surely this is not your affair today.”
“Surely.” He mumbled the blatant untruth, and managed a weak smile.
“I must be going.” Her face brightened a little, he assumed for his sake. “I’ll get Rebecca.”
He leaped up to pull out her chair and watched as she went over to Clarie. She said some consoling words that he could not hear, before she took Rebecca’s hand. The girl looked eager to leave. He, too, needed to get out. Observing his Clarie, he hated himself for being so easily absorbed into his other life. But Esther Stein’s words had filled him with a new anxiety. Did Jacquette know about the funeral? Certainly someone should be there to observe and protect the participants.